The Great Alone (10 page)

“It is only that their faces are different from ours.”

“And their ways are different,” Winter Swan argued. “Have you forgotten they killed Small Hand and Moon Face? They were hostile to the people from my village on Agattu. I think they are bad. We should not let them stay. We should make them leave the island … and fight them as my people did if they refuse. Speak to the headman and warn him of the danger of letting these strangers live among us. He will listen to you.”

“But they have come in peace to hunt our brother the sea otter. How can we make war on them?” Strong Man frowned. “That would be wrong.”

“They will bring suffering to our village. It is a thing I feel,” she persisted.

“As long as they live in peace with us, we will live in peace with them. The suffering will come if we make war on them.”

Winter Swan watched her husband while he ate, wanting desperately to believe in his wisdom.

Luka watched the Aleut emerge from the roof hatch of the barabara. The ocher-stained bird-skin parka hung to his ankles and concealed his powerful physique, making him appear no different than any other native man, but Luka knew better. A glimpse of that thick neck was all he needed to identify him. Last night he had witnessed the native’s suppleness and agility in the dance. He observed it again as the man walked down the mound to the village common, the little boy at his side copying his movements.

By his count that put the number of native men, young and old, at fifteen. He glanced at Belyaev, wondering at the promyshlenik’s true intentions after the things he’d said last night. At the moment, his attentions were focused on a native woman. Luka watched Belyaev saunter over to her. She looked at him with interest gleaming in her dark eyes. Luka had learned long ago that sex was an indiscriminate instinct.

“I like your parka.” Belyaev smiled and pretended to admire the garment. He felt the thick otter fur along the point of her shoulder. She moved slightly but didn’t attempt to escape his touch. Encouraged, Belyaev grew bolder. “The fur is soft. It makes me wonder if your skin is as soft underneath this parka.” He stroked the front of the garment and stopped his hand when it was over her breast, leaving it there. “I would wager it is.” His suggestive action and tone seemed to unnerve her. She backed away from him and turned as if to flee. Belyaev grabbed her arm. “Don’t run away. We were just getting acquainted.”

She struggled, trying to pull free of his grip, alarm now showing in her expression. One of the natives stepped forward and spoke sharply to Belyaev in his Aleut tongue. A translation of his warning to let the woman go was unnecessary; his challenging posture made it clear. Luka watched them tensely, waiting to see if a fight would erupt.

“She belongs to you, does she?” Belyaev smiled coldly at the native and released the woman. “I was just admiring her parka,” he explained through sign and stared at the native until he backed away. As soon as he did, Belyaev called him back. “Maybe your wife would be interested in trading that fur parka of hers for a few trinkets.” He motioned for the man to follow him as he walked over to his pack lying on the ground.

When he opened the pack and dumped the contents from a small pouch onto the trampled grass, more natives milled around to see. He started to hold up a string of red beads, but one of the natives spied another object in the pile of goods and grabbed it out, jabbering excitedly. Curious, Luka stepped closer. It looked like a rusty iron bolt, yet all the natives were eager to examine it.

Luka frowned. No other trade article had created such a stir among the natives. They turned excitedly to show it to the Samson of their tribe, and watched while he inspected it. His affirmative nod started them all jabbering again. Belyaev demanded the return of the iron bolt. Reluctantly it was given to him. Then he was immediately besieged with offers to trade, but he repeatedly shook his head and returned all the articles to his pack.

“Why doesn’t he trade that worthless piece of iron for the bidarka?” Shekhurdin frowned with disapproval. Luka wondered the same thing.

“He has a reason.” Although Luka couldn't guess what it was.

“And what is his reason for wasting the morning? We should be erecting our winter camp and gathering a store of food. He has sent out no men to explore and locate the good hunting areas. He’s kept them all here—idle. Some leader we have,” the Cossack declared scornfully.

“Maybe he expects trouble.”

“Not from these natives. Chuprov has the chief’s son as hostage. And the chief has already offered to have his people help in the construction of our quarters. We have nothing to fear from them.”

Luka didn’t put much stock in that opinion. Turning from his pack, Belyaev rose and slipped a hand inside his shirt, then walked toward them. Luka frowned. If he hadn’t seen Belyaev put the iron bolt in his pack, he would have sworn he just slipped it inside his shirt.

“I have a feeling they would trade their mother for that piece of iron.” Belyaev smiled.

“Why not find out?” Shekhurdin challenged.

“You have little experience at trading, have you?” His expression showed contempt for the Cossack. “It isn’t something you rush with these natives. The longer you wait, the more they want what you have and the higher the price goes.”

“Are we traders or hunters?” Shekhurdin retorted.

“I don’t know what you are, Cossack,” Belyaev jeered. “I only know you are lucky to be alive. If you want to stay that way, get out of my sight.”

The Cossack’s face became mottled with an impotent rage. After an instant’s hesitation, Shekhurdin pivoted sharply on his heel and stalked away. Having been bested by him in a fight before, the Cossack didn’t seek to pit himself against Belyaev again in combat. But Luka knew he would seek another means to defeat him if he could.

“Hey! Get away from my pack!” At Belyaev’s sudden shout, Luka instantly swung back to face the natives. One stood closer to the pack than the others. Belyaev strode back to his bundle and immediately searched through its contents. “It’s gone,” he accused, coming to his feet to confront the native who had first picked up the iron bolt. “You stole it, you thieving savage! Where is it?” He grabbed the Aleut’s wrist and forced his hand open, but the palm was empty. So was the other one. “Where have you hidden it? Which one of these accomplices did you give it to?”

Belyaev dug his fingers into the parka’s standing collar and tightened its circle to press his fist against the man’s throat. Alarmed, the native struggled against his grip while his comrades looked on uncertainly. Belyaev gave him a shove backwards into the others.

“He stole the iron,” Belyaev announced to his promyshleniki. “If we let him get by with it, they will steal everything we have. We must make an example of him.” He turned to the hunter immediately to his left. “Shoot him.”

It was virtually point-blank range. As the hunter cradled the wooden butt close to his shoulder, Luka braced himself for the explosive report, his battle senses sharpening. The musket boomed, belching fire and powder smoke. A woman screamed, and the impact of the lead ball knocked the native to the ground, mortally wounded. Somewhere a child started crying.

Instead of falling back in terror, the strong man of the village leaped forward—too quickly for Luka to react. He grabbed the fired musket from the promyshlenik’s hands and bent the long barrel into the shape of a horseshoe. The display of strength initially stunned everyone into immobility. Then the disarmed hunter pulled his knife and attacked the powerful Aleut.

“No!” Luka shouted the warning, recognizing a knife blade would never stop this native.

But the promyshlenik didn’t hear him or didn’t heed him. The Aleut seized his knife arm and snapped it like a twig, then closed his fingers around the man’s throat. The other natives, seeing his successful opposition, rushed to attack.

“Kill them! Kill them all!” the bellowed order galvanized the Russians into action.

Luka moved quickly into position for a clear shot at the muscular Aleut and fired. He saw the body go rigid with death shock as a small round hole appeared in the man’s temple. There wasn’t time to watch him crumple to the ground or to reload. Out of the corner of his eye, Luka detected a movement and swung to meet the thrust of a knife.

Arching out of reach of the stabbing blade, he grabbed the man’s wrist and twisted it to drive the knife into the man’s own stomach, then used a ripping motion to finish the kill. A red fountain of blood spewed from the man’s mouth, spraying Luka. The staccato-like roar of musketfire, the screams and shouts, the uncertain bawling of confused and frightened children all clamored in the distance. For Luka, nothing was as loud as the rush of blood in his own ears and the pounding of his heart. They blurred all the other noises of battle.

The killing had begun. There was no stopping it now.

Winter Swan left the barabara shortly after Strong Man. Seeking to avoid the strangers who made her so uncomfortable, she didn’t join the women of her village. Instead she took a basket and went to the grassy meadow behind the village to pick berries.

She hadn’t wandered very far when she heard a booming roar followed by a woman’s shriek. Startled, Winter Swan dropped the basket. The thunderstick—it had to be. She could see the commotion in the village, people running in all directions like puffins. The sobbing cry of a bewildered child reached her. Fearing for her son, Walks Straight, she ran toward the village.

In the center of all the turmoil, she saw Strong Man, his hands around the throat of one of the strangers and his face cold with rage. A second later she located Walks Straight solemnly watching his father. Sobbing with relief, she swept him into her arms and hunched her shoulders protectively around him, flinching at the deafening noise from more of the thundersticks. She started to run from the village and remove her son from all this danger.

Walks Straight cried out. Winter Swan turned to look as Strong Man slowly sank to the ground, his features frozen in a death mask. Blood trickled from a hole in his temple. She gasped in horror, then saw more bloodied bodies lying on the ground, none of them strangers. The resistance of the Attuans was broken. The remaining men started to flee, but the raiders pursued them. She saw three of them catch Stone Lamp, the aging headman of the village, and fall on him with their knives.

Struck with terror, she feared they would all be killed. Her one thought was to run to the cliff trail and hide in the mountains. But when she started toward it, Weaver Woman stopped her.

“No. There is no escape that way.” Tears streamed down the cheeks of the old woman, but her eyes held no panic. “They chase everyone down and hack them to death.”

“Walks Straight.” She cupped her hand over the back of his head, pressing him tightly against her. “I must hide him from them.”

“Come.” Weaver Woman hurried up the earth slope of the barabara to the roof entrance, then pushed Winter Swan onto the log ladder to descend first. Her old legs were not as agile as Winter Swan’s and she was slower climbing down the notched steps. “Hide him in the wall hole.” She gestured impatiently in the direction of a cubicle.

“Yes.” At last Winter Swan understood.

She ran to the private cubicle along the wall, partitioned with grass matting, and lifted aside the long woven mat. Behind it, a compartment had been dug into the earthen sides of the dwelling to create a small storage area. She hugged Walks Straight very tightly for an instant, wondering if she would ever hold his small body again, then set him in the hidden compartment. There was little room for him. He had to sit with his knees drawn up and his head brushing the earthen top.

“Listen very carefully to me.” Her voice wavered. There was fear and bewilderment in his eyes. Winter Swan struggled to achieve a measure of calm. “You must stay here and hide. Make no sound. No matter what happens—no matter what you hear, stay where you are … until … all those strangers have gone away.”

“Where will you be?”

“Do not worry about me.” Weaver Woman smiled to keep from crying. “Stay here.” The shouts and shrieks of terror from outside were lessening. Soon the strangers would be coming to see if anyone was inside.

Wrenching her gaze from her son’s face, Winter Swan forced her hand to lower the matting and conceal him from her sight—and that of the strangers. Weaver Woman helped her smooth the woven grass covering so it hung straight. Then quickly they moved away from it to the center of the barabara.

A face appeared in the roof opening—a full-whiskered face with round eyes. Winter Swan recoiled, but there was no place to run. Weaver Woman stood quite calmly. Instinctively she moved closer to her. The man turned his head and shouted something, then started down the ladder carrying his thunderstick. Almost immediately another stranger crouched beside the hatch.

The first man climbed halfway down the ladder, then jumped to the floor. He moved warily about the barabara, searching the cubicles and constantly glancing back at them. Winter Swan held her breath, afraid he would find her son’s hiding place. Her throat muscles strained with a silent cry for him to be still. Finally the man approached them and motioned them to ascend the ladder. Winter Swan let the old woman go first, wanting to stay behind near her son as long as she could. She felt the hard prod of the thunderstick push against her back, but dared not cry out for fear Walks Straight would forget and come running out to see what was wrong.